She was cursing at her TV. A Red Sox game was on. She was yelling at David Price, newly acquired from the Detroit Tigers. Price was behind in the count. I wanted to tell her that David Price was a good man. That he was a solid addition, a smart pitcher. That his teammates always looked up to him, even though he could be uneven on the mound. And that he was experiencing racism here in her city. That I knew she was dying from cancer.
I wondered what she would think of all of that, but I didn’t say much. I said that he was a good pitcher. That we hated losing him back in Detroit. I am sure she looked at me with scorn. Said exactly what she thought. I wonder why I did not. Maybe because if I did, I would have to say how I thought she was mean sometimes. How she did not give my mom credit for dealing with a mental illness. How it was too easy to blame my father for their divorce.
I knew maybe she was just afraid, like the fans in Boston who threw slurs out onto the field. How change comes whether we want it or not. And goodness is never enough of a shield. That is maybe what I should have said. That, like David Price, I knew she was good underneath— no matter how much she tried to hide it.
